Day Two

[Okor]

The rain pelted Okor's battered frame, the droplets impacting against his shattered ceramite. His one remaining arm was hooked underneath the azure and golden pauldron of the Thousand Son, the bright tones a stark contrast against the decaying surface of his own armour. Gurgling, his boots sunk into the wet earth, the mud coming up to his ankles. Still he pressed on, wholly devoted to his mission. He stumbled under the wide array of forces making their presence known: Damage, despair, weather, weight. It was all making this quite difficult. As he dragged the corpse of his brother up the incline, he began to reflect on what had happened.

The mutants and psykers had come first. Baiting them out with a simple distraction, and laying down heavy fire. It was far too simple a trap. He cursed himself for falling for it, his decimated jaw unable to form the words he oh-so-desperately wanted to scream. Tartaros has fallen first. Slain by the massive mutant's fist, still spitting venom and death until his demise. Admirable. He had died a Warrior's death, and he would be remembered. He would ensure it.

He was removed from his reminiscing by the entrance to the clinic. The battle has decimated it, leaving it shattered. He dragged the corpse over the rubble and shrapnel, the once-beautiful armour suffering under the rough treatment, beautiful colours scratched away to reveal a layer of crimson, and then solid ceramite. He let the corpse drop, as his hand picked up his makeshift tools. As he began to bring the chipped stone down on the breastplate, he began to think of what the warrior was before he was a corpse.

Galel. Thousand Sons. Wholly devoted to Tzeentch, the lord of change, yet oddly a point of stability. He was loyal, surprisingly sane, and an able combatant. But to be claimed so ingloriously? Slain by the Golden Grot's archer. If only he could have ended the Golden One, rather than his lackey. A warrior of ten millenia, taken down by an arrow through his back. This Omni was a cruel and capricious being, if he would allow such damage to be wrought upon an Astartes by a simple Feral world weapon. He would have his vengeance on the Golden One, the being who would think himself so powerful to exact tribute from Astartes. He gurgled again, enjoying the memory of seeing the bastard's face crumple under his face.

He closed to door to the refrigerator unit, blood coating the handle. The Progenoids were safe. Picking up his makeshift blade from the counter, he steeled his resolve. He was in no condition to find the Golden Grot. But he could wait. He could wait for the end of the world. The end of the universe. The end of this simple competition.

He was patient. They would make a mistake, eventually. And he would be there, waiting.